Sometimes I pictured my eczema like a monster sleeping beneath my skin. Most of the time it was hibernating, and I could go about my daily life. Although I had to be careful and take precautions. Anything irritating needed to be avoided. Room scents, perfume, alcohol, stress—ny of those could wake it. One thing was for sure, I didn't want to wake the monster.
Even asleep, it was always present. It did take up a room inside my body after all. My skin was prone to be dry and easily irritable. If by chance I did stir it in its dreams, steroid creams or pills would force it back under. But with any pills that force your body to ignore something, they don't work forever.
Painkillers can help you through your day, but they don't fix broken bones. Antibiotics are needed when you have an infection, but every doctor knows that too much will build resistance. Steroids only helped until they didn't, like forcing down a lid onto a boiling pot so that the water doesn't spill. The problem was that the water was still cooking. It was only a matter of time until the pressure would make it explode.
And apparently, the drink I had the other night did just that.
Because the monster was awake. And it was roaring in anger.
Killian leaned against his car with closed eyes, chin tucked onto his chest, head drooping.
Only when I stopped a few feet away from him did he lift his head. I had my hood up—wearing my own hoodie today. No need to start a pity party by flashing my skin in all its horrid glory.
"Hey," he said slowly, eying the distance between us. There was a question in his lidded eyes and he blinked a few times as if forcing himself to stay awake.
"Hey," I replied, averting my gaze. A rock sank into my stomach, and I felt slightly sick.
"You said you wanted to talk?" he asked slowly.
"Yeah... I mean the month is up, right?" I chuckled awkwardly and then winced at the tightness on my face.
"Yeah." I could hear the hesitation in his tone. "And?"
"I—" Bile rose in the back of my throat and I swallowed, suddenly tongue-tied. "I forgot to ask--how's your sister?"
"She's better. She'll be fine. So? What are you thinking?"
"Um...that's good. That she's better—"
"About us," he interrupted me.
An iron fist wrapped around my heart and squeezed, but I spoke the words anyways. "I don't think it's a good idea."
A crease formed between his brows. "Okay..." He shook his head, ruffling his hair, and then hit me with a thousand-yard stare. "Care to share why? Because I'm pretty sure this wasn't the case a few days ago."
He was right. Reality had hit me like a bucket full of ice water. Now the monster had risen, tormenting me. And it hurt like hell. Somehow, though, this hurt worse.
But it would get better, I reminded myself. It usually did after I'd isolated myself.
"You knew this could happen," I said.
"Of course, I knew but...well shit. Fuck." His hand dragged down his face which seemed heavy with exhaustion. He looked tired. Even when he was tired, he looked handsome. Maybe even more so. "I had a really shitty weekend. I—"
Wasn't I just the worst human being? "I-I'm sorry," I stammered. "I know this comes at a shitty time..."
"But we had a deal, I know," he replied, his voice tight.
His gaze appeared unfocused, drifting into space. For once, his attention was not on me which made me realize that it always had been. There had never been a time when I wouldn't find his piercing eyes locked on me. It felt as though the ground beneath me was shifting, leaving me unsteady and disoriented.
I scrambled for something to say. Anything. "That doesn't mean—I mean we can always be friends—"
"Friends?" Killian echoed, facing me again. "I don't want to be friends with you."
I inwardly flinched at his harsh tone.
"Tay. You have to decide. Do you want me in your life or not? Which means do you want to be my girlfriend or not? Cause I am not doing this half-assed thing anymore. That doesn't work for me."
My stomach was churning now. I had to say something. Anything. But what? There was nothing I could say to make this better.
He took in my hesitation and laughed humorlessly. "I guess that's a no then?"
My heart raced. No. I wanted to be with him—but I couldn't. And I hated it. I hated that I felt forced to do this and that I couldn't just be happy. That my body seemed to be set on working against me. But I also knew that I couldn't start a relationship like this, halfway drowning. It wasn't healthy. Maybe if we'd met each other sooner, it would have been different.
But it wasn't.
"There's something else, isn't there?" he said. "Is it because of your skin? You have eczema?"
My blood ran cold. "Yes, but—"
"Do you really think I care about that?"
"No," I said, fighting the urge to puke.
"Then get angry at me. Talk to me. But don't shut me out because—why? You don't trust me? Is that it?"
No. The problem was I didn't trust myself. And how could I when it felt like my own body was punishing me? No, I had to fix myself first. But how long would that take? Weeks? Months? Would I ever really get better? I didn't know. So, I kept my lips pressed together and said nothing.
"Really?" Killian turned with a curse.
"This isn't working. I can't do this. I can't... I'm not the person you think I am so stop pushing me into something I don't want."
As soon as those words left my mouth, I regretted them instantly, but it was too late to take them back.
His expression twisted and for a brief moment, I could see hurt swirling in his eyes. Then a wall slammed down and I was cut off. I hadn't realized until this moment how relaxed he'd been around me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen that blank mask.
Sensing tears pooling at the corners of my eyes, I blinked and bit into my cheeks. Not yet. I had to hold on a little longer.
"If that's how you saw things..." he said tonelessly. "My mistake."
Still, he stood in place, his large shoulders slightly hunched. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced and I felt so terrible my breath caught. But I knew I'd feel even worse with the guilt accumulating over time.
"Then I won't bother you anymore," he said and a knife slid through my chest.
Killian turned and opened the door to his car without another word. He didn't look back when he settled in the driver's seat. He didn't look back when he pulled out of the parking slot. He didn't look back when his rear light disappeared around the corner.
And then reality settled in.
This was it. I knew the raw feelings clawing at my insides were my own fault. But I hadn't expected it to hurt me this much. Were my other break-offs this bad? Usually, I would feel relief, but instead, there was this gaping hole inside my chest. I hadn't realized I was crying until my face started to burn as the salty tears ran over my irritated skin.
This was what I deserved, right? In the end, Killian needed someone better. He was good—great.
And I was a walking, talking mess.
The next two weeks passed in a haze of pain. Scorching, burning, throbbing. Everything hurt. Just moving my head was enough to feel like the wasteland that was my face cracked. Thick, swollen patches of skin curled around my neck. My arms were just as bad.
There was no sleep for me when the monster was awake because at night, it was the most active. It would keep me up, its claws sinking into my flesh like tiny needles, tingling, crawling beneath the surface. If I could, I would rip off my skin until only the bare flesh remained, until everything was inside out—as if I could dig the monster out of my limbs.
Every night I spent shivering in front of my computer, two large ice packs wrapped around the crook of my arms. I'd filed my nails so short two had started bleeding. The monster didn't care about any of my measures though. If anything, it mocked me for trying to keep it at bay.
When its next tantrum started, my skin turned into a battlefield. The winner or loser could change for no apparent logic. Some days the itching drove me up the walls but somehow, I managed not to scratch by pure willpower only. Other days I fell into a frenzy unable to stop, doing my very best to destroy every ounce of healthy skin I could find. Then no amount of cold or short nails would stop me from turning the battlefield into a bloody mess.
Just like I did now.
I shot up, my hand still hovering above the crook of my arm. A burning hot pain dug into the spot.
Shit.
Shakily, I got out of bed, already knowing but still dreading what I would find. My fingers found the light switch and I turned around.
Blood clung to the twisted sheets, sprinkled with flakes. I shut my eyes again, swaying in place. I knew I shouldn't have gone to sleep. Yet, I was just so tired. So damn tired.
I sank back onto the mattress, my body too exhausted to stay upright. There was no point cleaning this up now. If I could just get a few hours of rest—the same itching sensation crawled over my arm again and I jerked upright. There was no point in trying to get any more sleep.
I got to my feet, stumbled over to a small desk, turned on my computer, and grabbed my phone. The last time I checked it was maybe two days ago. I'd read through my messages whenever I had the energy to spare. Which seemed to be never. Sofia and Angie were the only people aside from Suz that I talked to.
Well, I talked to Jules as well when we were online. But he knew better than to ask questions. I was thankful for that. Playing video games was the only time I felt remotely like myself. In that place where nobody could see me, I felt almost normal. At least until I made the mistake of turning my head. Or just moving in general.
Not many people understood what it was like living with eczema. Most of them thought it's a small rash that's itchy and your skin is a little drier. They used to tell me to stop scratching. Why make it worse? they'd say. I wondered how these people would fare if somebody threw itching powder into their clothes and told them not to scratch. When the itch consumed you, you found a way to tear it up.
I checked the time. It was four in the morning. That meant I'd gotten three hours of sleep in a row. A new record.
My fingers subconsciously scratched over my scalp until they caught on an open wound. The dried blood clumped the roots of my hair, reminding me that I hadn't washed it for four days. I grabbed a loose shirt and pants, and trudged toward the bathroom, the growing sense of dread making my stomach clench in discomfort.
I turned on the lights, keeping my eyes fixed on my feet.
Don't look up.
It was such a natural thing to do, that I had to remind myself consciously not to.
Mirrors were my worst enemy. If I didn't see myself, I could at least pretend to some extent that it wasn't as bad as it felt. Hope always seemed more tangible when the outcome was less certain. Maybe that horrible creature inside of me would go back to sleep. But every time I saw my reflection the monster would stare back at me, laughing at my agony.
In slow, stiff movements I started to undress, careful not to disturb my wounds. I stepped into the shower and tightened my fists.
Here came the worst part. I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the shower knob. It was always like this. Deep breaths. I could do this.
I closed my eyes and turned it on.
The frigid water hit me like a truck. In an instant, shivers wracked my body and I quickly reached for the shampoo. The faster this torture was over the better. Sometimes it still surprised me how agonizing a simple task as washing your hair could become. My hands trembled as I spread the soap across my scalp. However, the cold biting into every inch of me was nothing against the sharp bits of pain as my arms moved to work the shampoo in.
Killian would call me out, telling me that I was aiming to become the next human popsicle...
No.
I blinked hard, fighting the pressure building behind my eyes. I shouldn't think of him.
I quickly turned off the shower and stepped out. The whole thing took less than five minutes.
The boulder on my chest seemed to grow as I stood motionless, dripping with water and trembling all over. Whenever I'd ended a relationship there was this sense of relief. Deep down I sort of expected the same thing. So why? Why didn't it get better? Easier? I had always felt better.
I flinched when the first tears started to fall. I couldn't cry. Crying was a luxury for people whose skin could handle the salty liquid, and mine most definitely couldn't. I spun around and went back under the icy spray, letting it drain out the discomfort I felt until my teeth chattered violently. Only then did I get out.
I dried up carefully. Already my skin began to tighten up. I had to apply creme. Which meant... With a stiff neck, I finally lifted my head.
My blue lips stood out among my discolored face. Brownish rough patches of skin creased around my eyes. The rest of my face was pale and flaky until right under my chin, a red irritated wound started spreading down to my neck.
If there was any self-confidence left inside my bones, it shattered into countless shards, each one embedding itself into my heart like a tiny dagger.
At least Killian didn't see me like this. A small consolation. It was all I could take that Suz witnessed the abomination I'd become.
Every time my skin got this bad, I would hide away until the episode was over. It felt as if my insides, my very soul was on display for everyone to see. There was no wall, no protection when people could literally see your inner state.
I had made the right decision. Killian only really knew the mostly healthy, normal version of me. It felt like a different person. Someone who could have friends and a boyfriend.
I chuckled coldly. What a joke.
When the facade crumbled only the ugly truth remained. I felt like an impostor. An impostor who had a taste of normal life, momentarily forgetting that this—this was the real me.
And I hated every second of it.